Virus
by SixesandSevens
Summary: Fill for a prompt on LJ, 'Daryl falls violently ill, it's just your run-of-the-mill cold/flu bug, but a particularly nasty case.'
1. Chapter 1

It was well into winter now. Probably mid-January, not that anyone was keeping track anymore. The days had been cold when they'd been forced to flee the farm, and had become bitterly so by the time they'd found a place to hole up in for the winter. The sad excuses for shelter they'd used all the nights before, thankfully a thing of the past.

They'd found a second rate motel, one of the semi-nicer ones that had rooms inside the building, rather than rooms opening directly outside. It was pretty secluded, in between towns, so the only buildings near it were a couple greasy spoons and a gas station.

Daryl trudged through the woods behind the motel, his breath coming out in visible wisps before him and the gentle snowfall catching in his hair before melting, leaving dew drops in their stead. He carried with him a scrawny rabbit and two even scrawnier squirrels. Not much of a haul, but it'd have to do. Their food stores were rapidly dwindling, and Daryl'd been going on all day hunts every day for the past two weeks now. He didn't often bring much game back, there simply wasn't much to be had.

With a weary sigh Daryl wiped a hand across his face, their situation was looking bleak. He had to bring back something substantial soon or they were fucked. But he hadn't seen anything bigger than a fox since they'd been in this area, and only the one time. He stopped a moment just before breaking the treeline to stretch his aching muscles; it did little to ease the discomfort. He was sore all over, the aches seeping into his bones along with the cold. He groaned in frustration as he felt the beginnings of a headache joining in on his torment.

He resumed walking, wanting to get back as quickly as he could. All he wanted was to go his room, get cleaned up a bit and go to bed. And really he wasn't looking forward to cleaning up, he was already cold and the luxury of hot water was a thing of the past; but he'd do it anyway, he was too dirty to climb into his bed in such a state.

When Daryl got inside he went straight to the kitchen were Lori was chopping some sad looking carrots. He wondered where she even got ahold of them as he gave her his contribution to their meal.

"Thanks." She offered setting the dead animals aside before going back to chopping.

Daryl nodded in acknowledgment, then headed out to his room. Once there, he turned on the sink. Thankfully the water still ran, but damn it was icy cold! He quickly took a miserable shower, his teeth chattering violently by the end of it. As soon as he was dressed he laid down in bed, huddling deep into the blankets and wished he had about ten more he could burrow under.

He woke to someone pounding on the door, the sound reverberating through his skull. He still felt exhausted, and for all he knew, could have been sleeping for five minutes or five hours.

"What?" He called gruffly to whoever was bothering him.

"Hey, dinner is ready." It was Carl. They must have sent him to alert anyone who hadn't already wandered into the little dining area that used to hold the morning's continental breakfast.

"Okay." Daryl called out, just wanting the boy to move on. He had no intention of leaving this bed. He wasn't hungry. But he was tired and the aches were more prominent than before, he was still cold and his throat was sore. He felt downright awful if he was being completely honest; of course, if someone where to ask him, he wouldn't be. It felt like he'd only just closed his eyes when someone was banging on the door again.

"Daryl?" This time it was Rick. "Carl said you were on your way. Aren't you coming?"

Why couldn't these people just leave him the hell alone? "No, I ain't. Now go away."

There was a pause, then, "Why not?"

"Can't you people follow directions? Give my share to someone else, if that's what you're worried about. Now leave me be!"

"What? You're not hungry? Are you okay?"

"I'm fucking fine!"

"You don't sound fine! Your voice is all shaky. And Lori said you weren't looking so good."

Fuck. Was he that bad off? "Shakin' with rage! And what the hell would she know? She hardly even looked up. Now leave me be, Grimes!" He wasn't sick. He refused to be sick. He was just tired.

"I'm not going to leave you alone until you let me in to see for myself that you're fine." Rick was using that tone Daryl knew meant the man had no intention of budging, not now, not ever. If he ever wanted any peace, he'd have to comply.

"Damn it all to hell." Daryl muttered under his breath. Painstakingly, he got to his feet. He had to stand still for a moment, dizziness overwhelming him, then shuffled over to unlock the door.

"There, you see me." He tried to keep the exhaustion from his voice. "We done yet?"

Rick was eyeing him critically, all of a sudden his hand shot out, trying to reach Daryl's forehead before he had a chance to fend it off. Daryl jumped back, Rick's fingertips barely brushing his skin. "What the hell!"

"Lori was right, you don't look good." Concern shone from the ex-deputy's eyes. "And I barely touched you, but from what I felt, you are burning up!"

Rick looked down, as though he was ashamed of what he was about to say next, but he exuded nothing but seriousness when he looked back up. "You didn't get bid, did you?"

"Fuck you! No, I didn't get bit!" Daryl snapped, thoroughly offended. "You think I'd come back here bit, and then not even say anything!"

"No, I don't think that. But I still have to ask." Rick pushed his way into the room, taking Daryl's arm and guiding him back to the bed as he spoke. Daryl didn't lay down when they reached it, just stood there glaring.

"How are you feeling?" Daryl's glare just darkened at that. Rick glared right back. "Look, cat's out of the bag. I know you're sick, so you might as well just admit it."

Daryl let out a defeated sigh, "I feel like shit, okay? I'm cold and tired. All I want to do is go to sleep, so if you'd just stop buggin' me..." He left the sentence open, hoping Rick would get the hint.

Fortunately, he either got the hint or had deemed his reconnaissance mission a success. "Okay, I'll leave you alone. But someone will be coming to check on you every so often, and don't hesitate to tell us if you need anything."

"Whatever." Daryl grumbled, sliding under the covers as Rick made his way back to the door. He was asleep as soon as he heard the door snick shut.

Everything was muddled and confusing after that. All the information his clouded mind tried to gather, thrown into some disjointed mess. Time ceased to have meaning, he had no clue how long things had been this way. A day, a week, a month? The disorientation permeated his mind, destroying his ability to make heads or tails of anything. He was trapped in some surreal non-reality, fading in and out of terrible fever dreams consisting of things that left even him rattled, unsure and hoping that it really was just a dream. Occasionally, he'd catch something going on around him, though he could never be sure if it was real or imagined, a flash of a concerned face, something cool and wet on his head, someone trying to coax something vile down his throat, snippets of conversation; like this one, that filled him was a hollow sense of dread.

"... doesn't have to if it's not the stomach flu."

"... so long... fever still hasn't broken."

"... look for antibiotics?"

"Won't do any good..."

"... have to do something!"

"... nothing more we can do."

Well, fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Carol headed down the darkened hallway towards Daryl's room laden with a bowl of broth, a glass of water and a couple Tylenol she'd managed to scrounge up. She was thankful they had a generator to provide them with some power at night, but they were careful to conserve, meaning they'd all become adept at navigating the corridors of the building at night.

She'd been patient after Rick's announcement that Daryl was sick, and waited until dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned before going to check on him. She knew he'd get sick. She just knew it. He was always pushing himself so hard, insisting he was and would continue to be 'just fine' whenever she expressed any concern. She'd watched him for weeks now, going off of little sleep and less food, enduring the constant exposure to the cold weather on his endless hunts. He was running off fumes, adamant in his refusal to listen to her when she asked him to slow down. The man was nothing if not stubborn.

She knocked lightly on his door, taking the liberty of entering after receiving no answer. The room was dark and she couldn't see whether he was awake or not. Creeping silently to the bedside careful not to bump into anything, she flipped on the bedside lamp, stopping short and expelling a little gasp at the sight that greeted her.

Daryl looked simply awful. Save for the slight flush in his cheeks, his face was a pallid grey, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The glow of the lamplight did nothing for the sickly appearance he presented. He lay on his side sleeping, but it certainly didn't look restful, what with all the shivering he was doing. The blankets had slipped down, revealing what she knew to be the warmest shirt he owned: an ill-fitting sweatshirt about two sizes too big. It was thin as far as sweatshirts go and sported a couple holes, the neckline and cuffs of the sleeves fraying, but it was better than nothing. She'd come across it one day while scavenging and given it to him. It'd been early fall at the time. With the days getting colder, the threat of winter looming oppressively over their heads, she was always keeping an eye out for any warm clothes the group could use. They all had a pitiful lack of winter clothes. She set everything down on the nightstand, and placed a palm on his forehead, alarmed at the warmth radiating from his skin.

"Daryl? Daryl, wake up." She gently shook his shoulder, "Daryl, you need to wake up." She got no response other than a moan, so she shook him harder. "Daryl!"

She was starting to get scared. Maybe she should got get Hershel, but she didn't know that he could really do much more than she could. That fever needed to be brought down, that she was sure of. Looking around the room, she spotted a small Tupperware container. She snatched it up and headed for the sink. God knows what he'd been using it for, so she spared a small amount of soap to wash it out before filling it with water and taking a washcloth from the drawer. She returned to her stricken friend's side, folded the blanket down to his waist then began to wrestle him out of his shirt. A task that would have been a lot easier if it wasn't sticking to sweat soaked skin.

She sat down next to him on the bed, dipped the cloth into the water and began mopping the feverish brow, hoping that her ministrations would help. The feedback from her patient was negative. A groan and more shivering. She didn't let that deter her, and systematically bathed his face, chest and arms until the water grew warm. Daryl didn't feel any cooler to the touch. If anything, he felt warmer. Perfect. She tried one more time to wake him with no success. Fear gripped her heart, raw and intense. She looked back down at the man who was fast becoming her best friend in the world, before fleeing the room in search of Hershel.

* * *

When Carol got back to Daryl's room with Hershel in tow, they found no change in the man. He was still unresponsive and hot as ever. Carol watched as Hershel examined him, wringing her hands, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

After what seemed like forever, Hershel turned to her. "I don't think there's any cause for real concern just yet. Fevers tend to have a way of working themselves out once they peak. Of course, we have no way to tell just how high a fever it really it is, but even so. And his body is exhausted. More than likely, he just needs to sleep this off for a while. He should be easier to rouse tomorrow. Though, I don't think it's a good idea to leave him alone. Someone should stay with him overnight."

"I'll do that." Carol stated without hesitation.

Hershel smiled, "I thought you might." His expression switched to one of paternal authority, "You shouldn't stay up all night, though. You need your rest too."

"I'll sleep in here." Carol gestured matter-of-factly to the unoccupied twin bed. "I can't leave him like this, and I'd never be able to sleep in my room. I'd just worry all night."

"All right." Hershel headed to the door. "If anything changes, don't wait to come get me."

Carol nodded then she was left alone with Daryl. She just stood there watching him shiver for several moments. Hershel's assessment had been encouraging, so why was it that she couldn't shake the feeling of fear that was taking hold of her?

* * *

Morning came and went. Daryl was still no better and was not easier to rouse as Hershel had predicted. The closest he'd come to waking was a few hours ago when he'd opened his eyes, but didn't appear to understand what was going on around him. He'd mumbled a few things too incoherent to be understood. Rick had just come in to relieve Carol, between the two of them they'd managed to get the Tylenol Carol'd brought the previous night down him.

That in itself was no easy feat. Daryl had fought them, and for as feeble as the fight that he'd put up was, he still managed to make it surprisingly difficult. You'd have thought they'd been trying to poison him, judging by the fuss he'd kicked up. He kept turning his head away and choking on the water they tried to get him to drink to wash down the pills, muttering indecipherable protests all the while.

By the end of it all, Rick almost regretted even trying. It was clear Daryl was too out of it to grasp the concept when they tried to explain that he needed fluids and medicine; he knew they desperately needed to lower Daryl's raging fever, but the last thing he wanted was to drown the man with their own good intentions. Rick credited Carol with their ultimate success. She'd somehow managed to coax the pills down; he'd mostly just propped Daryl up and kept his weakly swinging arms from knocking the water all over himself.

Not long after that ordeal, Hershel had come by and advised that they just keep an eye on him for now, try and get him to drink some more water if possible. Now hours later, Rick sat on the bed opposite Daryl, elbows resting on his knees, his steepled fingers coming up to cover his mouth, obscuring the worried frown he wore. He kept a silent vigil, wishing he could do something, knowing there was nothing he could do. So he settled for watching his ill friend toss restlessly in his sleep, alert to any indication Daryl was waking or may need something from him, or any change that would warrant frantically fetching Hershel. Rick let out a sigh. At least the shivering had stopped, that had to be a good sign, right?


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: I feel I should mention that my medical knowledge is somewhat lacking so I'm not going to get too detailed in that respect, but in a story like this it's impossible to avoid it entirely, so if I totally fuck something up I apologize. Let's just chalk it up to creative license and pretend I'm right, feel free to drop me a line and correct me though. ;) As always, thanks for reading and for those who have reviewed, if I've failed to reply I'm sorry, I do appreciate each review!_

Four days passed heralding no change in Daryl's condition. Not for the better anyway. He was getting steadily getting worse each day, trapped somewhere deep inside himself where his friends couldn't reach him, even on the rare occasion he was semi-conscious. Any attempts to were rewarded merely with a dry, painful sounding cough or pitiful moans the hunter would never allow to escape his lips in a conscious state. He went back and forth between shivering like he was on the verge of hypothermia and sweating as though he was baking under a desert sun, the fever in his body never ceasing and taking a visible toll. Already he'd lost a good deal of weight, his eyes taking on an unhealthy bruised look, his complexion an ashen grey. The group was nearly beside themselves in their worry.

Hershel didn't know what to do. He'd concluded early on that Daryl had the flu; he should be miserably sick, sure, but it seemed the resident Dixon had come down with an extreme case. Daryl wasn't getting better, and any medicine they had couldn't be administered seeing as it was all oral. Rick had told him what a struggle it'd been to get Tylenol into him that first day, and any attempts made after that had proved futile, even with Carol's patient prodding. The man was already dehydrated, and without receiving any fluids he certainly wouldn't be getting re-hydrated anytime soon. Not a good recovery plan. And that fever. Hershel wasn't sure how high it was, but if he had to venture a guess he'd say it probably averaged steadily above 101 degrees, and he felt that was more than likely a generous assessment. Not that he'd divulged that particular bit of dismal news to the others.

Several of the others had joined him in the sickroom, their concern for Daryl evident on their faces, a need for action fairly radiating off them. Hershel turned from his examination to face them, delivering unsurprising news. "Still no change."

No one spoke, their eyes downcast, despair in their gazes. Glenn raised his head, looking desperate. "How is he so sick? Are you sure it's the flu? Maybe it's something else; I mean he hasn't been throwing up or anything."

"He doesn't have to if it's not the stomach flu." Hershel answered.

"He's been like this so long now. And his fever still hasn't broken. He needs medicine; he's not going to get any better without it." Rick stated fervently, nearly at the end of his rope. Four days now, he'd watched Daryl wasting away before his eyes. He couldn't take much more of this.

Glenn took a half step forward, "Shouldn't we look for antibiotics? Maggie and I could go on a run." He looked to his girlfriend who nodded enthusiastically.

"Won't do any good. Influenza is a virus, antibiotics won't help him." Hershel stated gravely. He didn't get any further before Carol frantically interrupted him.

"Well, we have to do something!" Her voice lowered to a whisper "He's dying."

Hershel raised a placating hand, trying to calm the distraught woman. "I know. I know. As I said, antibiotics won't work, but there are antiviral drugs to combat the flu. Tamiflu and Relenza, for instance. But what he really needs are fluids. He's too weak and disoriented right now, and trying to get water into him orally isn't working. He needs a saline IV." He turned back to Glenn. "That's what you and Maggie need to find. Short of that, I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do."

* * *

Glenn and Maggie ventured into one of the nearby towns in search of medical supplies. It was a smaller town without a hospital, but Glenn had no problem with that. He had no desire to mosey on into a hospital anyway. What a death trap that would be. Hospitals tended to be located in the midst of highly populated areas, the building itself a labyrinth of long, narrow corridors lined with rooms. A recipe to find yourself in an area crawling with walkers.

Instead, they found the urgent care center the town had to offer. A building he was much more comfortable contending with and one he hoped would provide them with what they needed. They stood outside it, quickly scanning the area for threats.

"I hope it's not looted already." Maggie whispered, echoing Glenn's own thoughts, and headed toward the glass double doors. Reaching for the handle, she found them unlocked. She spared a quick glance for Glenn, conveying in a look that this place was undoubtedly unsecure. The lobby was in shambles, chairs overturned, papers littering the floor. Blood stains here and there. But no walkers. Quietly, Maggie reached for the handle of the door leading to the back rooms, Glenn poised to take down any possible threats beyond the door when she swung it open. Aside from more debris littering the floor and blood splatters, it was all clear. The nurse's station just to the right was empty as well. They continued clearing the building, grabbing medicine, bandages and anything else that looked worthwhile as they went along. They found two walkers in the employee lounge, which they made quick work of. It appeared to be a nurse and a patient.

Maggie looked over at Glenn standing above the dead nurse. "We still haven't found any IV bags, there's got to be a storeroom around here somewhere. And I haven't seen any Tamiflu or Relenza; I have no idea if any of this other stuff we got are antiviral meds."

She came off matter-of-fact, but Glenn new better. She was getting nervous. Hell, he was too. They'd cleared most of the building already and gathered a good haul, but not a single thing they actually came for to begin with. Nothing that could help Daryl.

"Don't worry." Glenn reassured, trying to sound more positive than he felt, as he pulled Maggie into a hug. "Daryl's a fighter. We'll find what he needs, and he'll be okay. If we don't find it here, we keep looking."

Maggie nodded, unshed tears pooling in her eyes. "Okay." She said confidently, albeit with a slightly shaky voice. "Let's finish clearing this place out."

* * *

Carol was sitting on the edge of Daryl's bed again, damp rag in hand mopping too warm skin. Glenn and Maggie had been gone for several hours; she hoped they'd get back soon. She just wanted Daryl to get better, and was terrified that he wouldn't. She'd watched as his condition deteriorated for days now, and he seemed to be circling the drain. The first couple days, she kept telling herself _'It's just the flu. He'll be fine._' But she'd forgotten how dangerous the flu can actually be. How fatal it can be. With modern medicine, people tend to take their health for granted, and illnesses are treated with an air of carelessness. This was a lesson to them all that their health was not a matter to be taken lightly anymore.

She finished bathing Daryl's chest and arms, dipping the cloth in the Tupperware bowl once more she laid it across his forehead. Biting back tears, she took his limp hand in her own lightly running her fingertip across his palm and up and down his fingers. It broke her heart to see him this way. Sighing, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Please Daryl, get better. Fight this."

There was a knock at the door then, Hershel opening it without waiting for an answer, Maggie and Glenn following close behind. Carol wondered why he even bothered with the formality. She looked to Glenn and Maggie as they dug through the bags they brought in.

"We found an urgent care center. I thought it was going to be a bust after a while, but we finally found a whole shitload of saline bags in one of the last rooms." Glenn informed Carol, handing an alcohol wipe to Hershel as Maggie readied the IV, hanging it on the bedpost.

"Yeah, but we didn't find any antiviral medications." Maggie chimed in, she gestured to the saline, "This will have to do I guess."

Once he was satisfied with the drip rate, Hershel patted Carol's shoulder. "Hopefully getting him hydrated will give his the body the strength it needs to fend off this illness. After this, we may be able to rouse him enough to get some fever reducers in him."

Carol nodded, hoping Hershel was right. For now, all they could do was wait.


	4. Chapter 4

The chilly air whipped around him as he trudged along, the setting sun casting long shadows all around. These woods he found himself traveling through seemed so familiar, and yet, utterly foreign. Daryl's sharp eyes scanned his surroundings trying to place the oddity of the landscape and found it intangible. Maybe it was just the feeling of unease simmering in his gut, threatening to rise into a full-fledged boil. He couldn't discern what exactly was putting him on edge, which did nothing for his foul mood.

He couldn't quite remember what he was doing in the woods to begin with, a fact that should worry him more than it did; he just felt that he should continue traveling on his present path. For now, he was content to continue meandering on through, letting things reveal themselves as they came. He was mindful of keeping his guard up, the air around him alive with the promise of something to come. What was that something? Now that was the million dollar question. He'd bet it all that it wasn't going to be something he was going to like.

Just as the sunset was over it began to rain, only a few sprinkles right at the start, but quickly shifting into a steady downpour, thunder cracking loudly, the lightning illuminating the darkness. The thick droplets where warm, in puzzling contrast to the cold evening. He didn't have time to wonder at that because he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. On instant high alert, he crouched into a fighting stance and reached for his crossbow, realizing for the first time it wasn't with him. Mortified that he could get so far without his main weapon and not even _notice_ he reached for his knife. When he came up empty, panic coursed through him. Patting himself down revealed he was completely weaponless. How did he manage to venture out without a weapon? He couldn't believe himself. The bushes rustled again, and he quickly threw himself behind a tree for cover to give him time to assess the situation. When Carl appeared and it started raining just a little harder, Daryl heaved a sigh of relief, stepping out from behind the tree.

"Jesus, Carl! Where the hell did you come from?" The boy didn't answer, just gave him a solemn stare, face pale, freckles standing out starkly even in the darkness. Carl nodded his head in the direction he'd come, before turning and heading back, not bothering to see if Daryl was following.

They walked for several minutes, neither saying a word, the rain drenching them both to the core. Daryl wouldn't admit it out loud, but Carl was starting to freak him out a bit. He was moving along in a stiff and unnatural gait. Daryl wondered what had brought the boy out that way to begin with. Sure, Carl was known for running off, but this seemed different. He began to wonder if Carl was in some state of shock judging by his manner, which begged the questions: What happened? And where were the others?

He was contemplating asking Carl just these questions when they broke into a clearing. It was obviously the groups' camp. But then why couldn't Daryl remember setting up shop here? Scanning the area, it was clear something terrible had happened. There was blood pooling in places, splattered over the displaced objects strewn about, tents were toppled and ripped into. The fire pit smoldered, useless in the rain, there was a pot of what looked to be stew overturned in the ashes. He didn't see a single soul.

Horror raced through his veins like a poison, paralyzing him completely, he couldn't even breathe. Willing his racing heart back under control and taking a gasping shudder of a breath, he stumbled forward hoping to see someone, anyone, alive and intact.

The rain picked up speed as he rounded a destroyed tent, thunder crashing loudly in his ears, the lightning broadcasting every gory detail on the sight laid out before him. It was T-dog. His body stripped to the bone. A skeleton was all that remained, an oozing hole caved into his skull. It seemed one of the others had taken the time to put the man out of his misery during the chaos. He stared in shock, disgust, sadness till he vaguely noted the rain picking up once more as a noise registered, and he turned toward it. He kind of wished he'd ignored it.

There was Lori. She was shambling towards him, arms outstretched, teeth snapping and snarling. Her once distended stomach had vanished, and in its place was a gaping hole, bloody tissues falling out of her body, hanging in chunks, and smaller pieces slopping onto the ground at her feet. It felt like a knife pierced through Daryl's heart as he realized that Lori had died while walkers feasted on the unborn child growing inside her. Another innocent life snuffed out without even a whisper of a chance in this harsh, unforgiving world.

He just stood there, stock still, as she got closer and closer. He couldn't believe this was happening. He'd allowed this to happen by not being there. By not protecting them. He hadn't been there; no he'd been off traipsing about the woods, _sans_ weapon of all things! She'd turned because he hadn't been there to keep the pact, keep her from turning. And now she was nearly on top of him and he was just staring at her in a daze, he didn't even have a weapon to put her at rest. Lightning flared once more, reflecting off of her cold dead gaze mere inches from his face, snapping him back to reality. He frantically searched the ground for something to use. A stake from one of the tents was conveniently lying nearby. He snatched it up and pierced her eye socket with it, catching her body and gently lowering it to the ground, rather than letting her fall in a heap as he did with the average walker.

The sky split with lightening, rain coming down even harder, as though the electric charge ripped a physical hole for it to pour through. Daryl heard a pained cry and rushed toward the sound. Unbidden, a strangled sound escaped him when he saw what was the cause of that cry.

Hershel was kneeling over Beth, bloody hands bring the girls intestines to his lips. He was eating his own daughter. Not much could turn his stomach, but in that moment, Daryl thought he might be sick. He steeled himself and refused to turn away when the young girl locked eyes with him, hers radiating pain and spilling over with tears.

"Where were you?" She whispered accusingly, voice weak and barely there. He could do nothing but look on sorrowfully. "_Do_ something!" She begged, prompting him back into action.

Daryl stepped forward, raising the tent stake, still slick with Lori's blood. "I'm sorry, Beth." He choked out over the lump forming in his throat. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to finish her. Swiftly, he stabbed the stake through her temple, releasing a sobbing gasp when he pulled the tool free.

Hershel, disturbed from his meal, turned on him with a growl. The old man was missing a large chunk from his left shoulder, Beth's guts hanging from his bloody maw. Daryl jabbed the stake through the top of the man's head accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder.

He fell back on his haunches, tears he refused to let fall stinging his eyes. The relentlessly pounding sheets of rain started coming down even harder. He'd begun to recognize this as a precursor to discovering the fate of another member of his group. He looked up through the rain, fearfully, terrified of what fresh hell he'd be confronted with next.

He should have kept his head down. Glenn and Maggie where staggering his way, Maggie was missing her right arm from just above the elbow, gore dripping steadily from the jagged wound; the left side of Glenn's face was all but missing, having been eaten away. A low growl emanated from his ruined throat as he approached. They were both very clearly dead, and yet, they were speaking as they neared, freezing Daryl in place in shock.

"You let us down, Daryl." Blood dribbled from Maggie's lips as she spoke.

Glenn shambled forward, "Why weren't you here? Look at us. Look what's happened."

Daryl couldn't speak, he couldn't move. He just sat, the rain pounding mercilessly, staring in sheer horror at the pair. His breath was coming too fast, chest heaving, desperate for oxygen. He was panicking again. They were nearly on top of him now, accusations flowing freely from bloody lips, and still Daryl sat unmoving. Too shocked to defend himself, too mortified to do anything. Two shots suddenly rang out, along with an increase in rain yet again, just before they descended on him, all snapping teeth and vicious snarls. They collapsed before him, bullet holes in their skulls, blood and brains seeping out of the fresh orifices. Rick stood a couple yards away, revolver in hand, but lowered now. He approached Daryl with a crazed look in his eye.

"You failed us, Daryl, and looked what happened. Glenn and Maggie. Look what I had to do to them!" He shouted in Daryl's face. Only when Rick reached out to grab his shirt, bringing him closer, did Daryl notice the bite on the other man's arm. Up close like this, he could see the sickly features of Rick's face, it wouldn't be long now. He'd have to face another of his friends turning. "How could you let this happen, Daryl? You're just worthless aren't you? Not even there when we need you." Rick gritted at him.

"It ain't like that, Rick." Daryl hated the trembling he detected in his own voice. He was losing his composure, the grief and trauma threatening to overcome him. But it wasn't over. Not yet. Abruptly, Rick threw him back.

"You're weak, Daryl." He snarled. Daryl flinched as though he'd been struck. "We should have gotten rid of you like we did Merle."

He knew he should be mad at Rick's words. He should be enraged. And yet, he found he wasn't. He agreed. He'd heard it all his life, that he was a worthless piece of shit, no good to anybody. He'd fooled himself into believing that he meant something to these people, how wrong he'd been. He'd been off fooling in the woods when they'd needed him most. He really was useless. He stayed silent staring at the ground, even when he heard Rick draw back the hammer of his weapon, knowing this was the end. He shut his eyes and waited.

_BANG!_

It took Daryl a moment to recognize that Rick had shot himself instead. Ended himself before he could reanimate into one of the monsters that'd plagued their lives for so long now. He looked up, taking in Rick's corpse, then further up into Carl's cold and murky eyes.

"Carl. I'm so sorry." Daryl forced out quietly, his breath nearly stolen by his abhorrence of all that'd happened in the past few minutes. Carl's gaze never wavered; he just kept peering at him unnervingly.

"Carl." Daryl tried again, standing. He took a single step forward, but before he was able to move any further, a fierce gust of wind whipped around them, knocking the Sherriff's hat off the boy's head. Anything Daryl would have said died on his lips in that moment. The right side of Carl's head was caved in; blood began coursing down his face now that it was no longer trapped under the hat. The boy growled and started for him. How was he a walker? With his head in the condition it was?

"You should have been here!" Carl yelled before snapping at his arm. He jerked away on reflex, finding the stake was still curled in his numbed fingers. He plunged it into Carl's head, then dropped it in disgust. He couldn't take his eyes off of the dead child. This was too much. His chest was on fire, a cry threatening to erupt at any moment, breaths coming in desperate gasps.

Suddenly there was a hand lightly touching his shoulder. He flinched violently, turning around with an arm raised, till he met Carol's eyes. His arm dropped. He hadn't even noticed the rain start to come down harder than ever, impossibly. But it had.

She was regarding him with such a look of sadness, he thought his heart might fly into a million pieces right there on the spot. She was bleeding heavily from a wound right over her heart. He couldn't breathe again.

She took a faltering step closer to him, a pained expression ghosting across her features just for a moment. "You didn't protect me, Daryl. You said you'd always protect me." He could feel himself starting to shake in his effort to control the emotions roiling inside him, on the verge of explosion.

"I… I…" The aborted sentence hung in the air between them, stagnant and insufficient. He caught her as she stumbled and fell.

"Quit making promises you can't keep." The words were wispy, but filled with reproach. He watched her face as the light in her eyes went dark, like she'd just faded away and never was. He crumbled to his knees, cradling her body in his arms, an anguished scream tearing from his chest.

Everyone. He'd just lost every single one of them. He found himself staring down at her, devoid of emotion. He felt empty, used up. He had nothing left. Game over. Then the lightning splintered through the night again. That's when he saw it. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, unable to even produce a noise in his dismay.

The drops of rain on Carol's face… blood. It was raining blood. That was why the rain had been so much warmer than it should have been. That's why it started raining harder each time one of his group perished. It was _their_ blood!

Daryl nearly lost his mind at the revelation. Unthinkingly, he dropped Carol to the ground, uselessly scrubbing at his blood drenched arms and face. There was nothing for it. The bloody rain was a torrential downpour by now, and he was already soaked through. He looked about wildly for somewhere to go. _Anywhere_ but here, but when he lifted his eyes, he took pause.

The blood-rain hadn't stopped, but the campsite was gone. In its place was a small neighborhood. A sickeningly familiar neighborhood. Complete with the little house that would forever haunt his memories, smoke billowing from it into the sky, flames licking at the windows.

_His house. _

The one his mother had been burnt to a crisp in. As he watched the flames, he felt something burning his arms, and looked down at them. Little specks of smoldering bloody ash where dusting over him. The thick smoke from his childhood home wasn't smoke at all, it was sooty blood, cascading back down through the air to cover him, mixing with the rain and creating a disturbing crimson paste on his skin. He wiped a finger on his arm, inspecting the gook detachedly, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb.

"You knew you weren't worth it. Had to end sometime." Daryl spun at the familiar voice behind him, coming face to face with Merle. His brother had a smirk on his lips, his right arm ending prematurely, bleeding too heavily from the end to be solely from the awful weather phenomena.

When Daryl failed to respond, Merle just continued. "Always knew you was a fuck up, Baby Brother. Couldn't even protect the people you fooled yourself into caring for." Merle sneered nastily. "You really think those fuckers gave two shits about you? You was nothing to them. A resource that happened to be convenient. How long you think that would have lasted?"

"Shut up, Merle. You don't know what you're fucking talking about." But Daryl's tone lacked conviction.

Merle just laughed. "Oh, ho, ho! Really now? Didn't they just blame you for what happened back there? Tell you what, Darylina, you're damn lucky they all died. Saves you the trouble of dealing with it when they try to cut you loose, because they would have. Sooner or later. Only a matter of time."

Daryl opened his mouth to make a scathing retort, then snapped it shut. Somewhere between Merle's appearance and now, the river of blood falling from the sky had begun to pool up and rise on the earth. It was knee deep now, and rapidly rising. Dread replaced anger as he tried to wade through the thick fluid. It rose inches in the time it took to take two steps.

Merle was laughing again, "You ain't getting out of this one, Baby Brother." Daryl looked at him, panic in his eyes and watched as his brother simply disappeared before him. The moment he spent watching Merle vanish allowed the blood to rise even further, reaching his armpits.

"No, no, no!" He cried hysterically, no longer in control of his wits, the horror of this night overwhelming him.

He was swimming in gore now, and for all his efforts, staying in one place. As the vile substance rose even higher, he refocused his efforts to simply keeping his head above the proverbial water. Suddenly hands were grasping at his legs, trying to pull him under. He let out a guttural scream before being dragged underneath the crimson waves. He tried desperately to break free, but the hands held firm, keeping him submerged. He was choking on the thick coppery fluid, lungs burning for oxygen. His mind reeled at the futility of it all, the monstrosity of his end. And then, it all went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Daryl's eyes flew open to Carol's alarmed face hovering inches above his own. She was saying something, but he couldn't be bothered to know what, as he was too busy choking, the metallic taste of blood still a thick coating on his tongue. Someone was pounding on his back as his lungs struggled to intake a breath. He couldn't fathom how Carol was there, or who could be beating on his back in an attempt to dislodge the remaining droplets of blood threatening to drown him.

His airways finally clear, he swung his gaze around, blearily and disoriented, landing on Carol once again. She was babbling, it didn't matter what, it all registered as nonsense to his fever-addled brain. All he knew was she was here, in front of him, alive. And he couldn't understand how that was possible. She was dead. And so was he. He'd held her in his arms as she took her last breath, then he'd been robbed of life by that disturbingly freakish rainstorm and flash flood. He shuddered at the images flashing through his mind.

Her hands were on either side of his face now, her lips moving quickly, and the expression she wore bordered on something like panic. Locking eyes with her, he noted tears beginning to pool in them.

"Are we dead?" He finally managed to rasp.

At that, the tears overflowed and began running the length of her face. Had he not needed an answer so badly, he'd feel bad for even asking. "What? No, we're not, Daryl. You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

He wasn't sure what she was going on about, telling him he was 'okay', but she claimed they were alive. Even so he was unsure. The weight of what he'd just experienced pressed down on him, threatening to crush him, and the confusion of Carol sitting before him looking upset, near hysterics really, but otherwise fine baffled him. He didn't dare hope.

"You're alive?" He whispered hoarsely, partly because his throat was killing him, and partly because he was terrified.

"Of course I am, you silly man." Carol stroked damp strands of hair from his brow lovingly. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Daryl just shook his head in place of an answer, slowly looking around the room. He was in bed in his motel room. His shirt was missing, water covering his chest; that's when he noticed the cup sitting on the nightstand next to Carol. Realization was gradually dawning on him. It was all a dream. A horrible, horrible dream. He hadn't been choking on blood at all, it was water. He'd choked on water. It'd felt so real. Hell, it'd tasted it real.

Attempting to banish the vestiges of the nightmare trying to cling to the edges of his mind, he focused on what Carol was doing in his room to begin with. Why did she look so upset? Well, other than him freaking her out by asking if they were dead. He was about to ask her, when a harsh bout of coughs ripped through him, setting his chest and throat on fire.

"Shh, shh. Settle down, it's alright." Rick muttered uselessly, lifting him a bit more so he was sitting just a little higher, his back reclining against his chest. Rick's arms wrapped around him, holding him steady.

Oh, so that'd been Rick beating on him before. He'd have to thank him for that, and the surely accompanying bruises; if he could ever stop coughing, that is. When the coughs finally abated he collapsed back into Rick, allowing the other man to support him, his head lolled back onto his friend's shoulder. He lay there panting and exhausted. God, he felt terrible. He ached all over right down to the bone, his head throbbed with an intensity he'd only ever experienced with the worst of the concussions he'd endured in his life and it was absolutely _freezing_ in this room. To top it all off was the unbelievable weakness. It was taking tremendous effort just to keep his eyes open, never mind trying to move his arms or lift his head. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? He'd never felt so vulnerable. So helpless. Not even the countless times his dad had laid into him so badly he couldn't even drag his ass to school for days just to get away from the bastard, or when he'd landed himself in the hospital for a good month after crashing his motorcycle. That had only been partly his fault. He'd been pissed off and riding around like a reckless jackass. Maybe if he'd been paying more attention he'd had have seen that drunk driver before they slammed right into him. Then again, maybe not.

He watched through heavy lids as Carol began mopping the spilled water coating his skin with a hand towel. Once she finished, she picked the cup up offering it to him.

"Think you can manage a sip or two? Maybe even take these pills?" She was holding what Daryl recognized as Extra Strength Tylenol out along with the water. Daryl found the idea of swallowing anything at all unpleasant. But the look in her eye, the one begging him to take it, telling him he _needed_ this medicine, made him resolve himself to do what needed to be done.

"Sure." He groaned noncommittally. Without having to be asked, she brought the pills up to his mouth, following them with the cup. If he hadn't felt like such a steaming pile of shit, the fact that he needed help on such a level would have bothered him a whole lot more. The pills scraped their way down his throat, leaving it raw and tender, but the water soothed the sensation slightly. Small comfort.

Once the medication was down, Rick scooted out from behind him and gently lowered him down onto the pillow so he was lying flat. Even though Rick took it slow, the drop in altitude made his head swim. He shut his eyes against it.

"The fuck happened to me?" His voice sounded paper thin. He really hated that.

"You're sick, Daryl." He opened his eyes back up, seeing an array of emotions swirling in Rick's. Worry, anxiety, relief, hope, dread. Daryl didn't know what to make of it all. "You had us all pretty concerned there. You've been out for six days. I can't tell you how good it is to see you awake."

"What?" He was astonished. "_Six_ days! Just what the hell is wrong with me?" He was shouting now. Well, what could pass for shouting in his condition. It came out as more of a harsh whisper.

"Daryl, calm down! You still have a fever, and you only just woke up." Carol produced a damp cloth, seemingly from nowhere, at least in Daryl's perspective, and began mopping his brow with it. She sent a glare Rick's way, making it very clear she felt that now was not the time to be revealing such things. She was right. And really, Rick should have known better by now, which he did, just had a lapse in judgment. Rick clamped his mouth shut, looking sheepish.

"Hershel says you have the flu." Carol told him in answer to his earlier question as she moved the rag down to bathe his neck. He actually laughed at that, which quickly turned into another coughing fit.

"What on earth could possibly be funny about that?" The sternness in her voice was at odds with the nervous look she was unable to hide from him.

"You're fucking with me right? No way the damn _flu_ put me out for six days." He was incredulous. This was ridiculous. There was shit that needed getting done, the others were going to starve on his account; he couldn't allow himself to be down for the count for so long like this. Over something as pathetic as the flu! For fuck's sake!

"No, I'm not fucking with you!" Daryl was taken aback by Carol's tone. She almost seemed… angry. "Just because it's the flu doesn't mean it can be taken lightly, Daryl. Your health is important; you can't just dismiss and disregard it!" The irritation in her eyes morphed into tears threatening to overflow. "Make no mistake, whatever strain you got is serious."

He didn't know what to say. Carol's outburst caught him off guard. Sure they were friends, he'd come to consider the whole group as some sort of pseudo family by this point, but for her to be so… invested. In him. He hadn't expected it. Although, he shouldn't be so surprised, he supposed. After all, she'd been pretty upset with him when he wanted to go out searching for Sophia so soon after his injury all those weeks ago. Of course, he couldn't ignore the fact that Rick was standing right there looking for all the world as though he was single-handedly responsible for Daryl falling ill to begin with, and thus, doubly responsible for ensuring he recovered. Christ, if Rick wasn't invested too.

Hell, he didn't have the energy for this right now. Sighing, he closed his eyes. "Sorry." God, he was so tired. Seemed absurd after six days' rest, but there it was all the same. "I ain't dismissing shit… just… surprised me. That's all."

Rick's hand was a heavy weight on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring pat before disappearing again. "It's okay, Daryl. We've all just been worried about you. It's been a long week. Things were real touch-and-go there for a while."

Daryl opted not to answer, the need for sleep quickly pulling him back under. The damp cloth was on his forehead again, its coolness a welcome respite to the torrid atmosphere of the room. Strange. Earlier it'd been like an arctic wonderland in here.

"Get some rest." Carol's soft voice drifted to him, sounding farther away than it rightly should. But he didn't question that or her command, he simply complied.


	6. Chapter 6

The next time Daryl woke it was gradual, his body slowly becoming aware of his surroundings before he could even comprehend he was waking. There was the rustle of someone moving about next to him, the cool touch of a palm to his forehead, pressure on his wrist. Something trying to invade his mouth… What the hell? So much for gradual. That woke him right the fuck up.

Even so, his movements were lethargic, his reactions delayed. So when he sluggishly opened his eyes, mentally preparing himself to muster up enough energy to beat someone for violating him, and crossed them to peer down at the offending object breaching his lips, it took him a moment to register that it was a thermometer. Which was really a relief. He didn't quite feel up to kicking anyone's ass right now. Not that that'd ever stopped him before when the occasion arose. He noted a hand attached to the end of the instrument, and followed the line of said hand, up the arm and, finally, to Hershel's face.

He wondered where the old man had managed to dig a thermometer up at.

"Good to see you awake." The vet greeted him. A beeping sounded then, Hershel lifted the thermometer up to peer at it with a grim expression and let out a sigh. "Your temperature is 102.1. Not as good as I'd hoped, but it's still an improvement to what it's been."

Daryl snorted incredulously. "Improvement?" His voice was quiet and filled with disbelief.

Hershel nodded gravely. "Well, yes, in comparison to 104.4 I'd say it is, wouldn't you?"

Well wasn't that fucking special. Daryl's normally stoic features displayed his shock clearly. "You're serious?"

"You've been a very ill young man, Daryl. We've all been quite worried about you. I can't be sure what your temperature was the first few days to be perfectly honest. I had no way to measure it when you first became ill. But judging by feel, your fever was steadily somewhere around 104." He began rummaging around in a bag he produced from the floor, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around Daryl's arm.

"Guess I'm on the mend then." Daryl stated, closing his eyes tiredly, willing his words to be accurate. He hated being sick. Despised the pounding in his head; the aches in his bones. Detested the weakness of his body; the exhaustion pervading his senses. Loathed how it made him vulnerable, dependent, helpless.

"I wouldn't say that you're out of the woods just yet, but you are doing much better. A very good sign." Hershel smiled a bit before his lighthearted expression was replaced with a more serious one. "You were doing poorly. Your condition was deteriorating rapidly and you'd been unconscious for four days. We couldn't get any fluids or medication into you orally in the state you were in, so it was imperative we get an IV started or you weren't going to make it. Of course, we didn't have anything like that on hand, and had to send Maggie and Glenn out on a run for supplies. They came back with several other things as well, including this bag of medical equipment. After losing all my equipment when the farm was overrun, it's good to have a few tools again."

Daryl silently regarded the old man as he continued his examination, digesting what'd he'd just been told. Glenn and Maggie had gone out because of him? Well didn't that just make him feel like a sunbaked sack of shit. On top of everything: not being able to go hunting, causing everyone undue stress and worry by getting sick, making them take care of him… now they had to send people out to risk their lives for his sake. He sighed and closed his eyes. Unbidden Merle's words from his dream came back to taunt him. _"You knew you weren't worth it." "You was nothing to them. A resource that happened to be convenient." _He shivered as the visions of that nightmare flashed before him yet again; knowing that Glenn and Maggie could easily have succumbed to the same fate fetching things for him as they had in his dream. They should never have had to do that for him.

Hershel mistook his shaking for a cold chill, which, in truth, was probably partially due to just that, and pulled the blanket up to cover him better. Daryl looked back up at the elderly man. "Ya'll shouldn't have sent them out for me."

"What on earth do you mean?" Hershel asked, astonished.

"Wasn't worth the risk." His feverish gaze locked onto the older man, the glazed pools of blue emitting certainty and self-depreciation.

"Son, I don't think you know what you're saying. Without fluids…"

Daryl cut him off, his voice weak and quiet, but adamant. "I do know! I either would have pulled through, or I'd have died. It still wasn't any reason to send Glenn and Maggie, or anyone in the group for that matter, into danger. My life ain't worth all that."

"That's simply not true, and I think deep down you know that." Hershel returned with conviction.

"It is true. I've failed this group. I hunt for ya'll, and now I can't even do that. Wasn't bringing much back before all this anyway. You people shouldn't have risked yourselves. Should've just let me be." This whole situation was fucked. He was a liability now. A burden and stress on the group's resources and manpower. They needed to be putting their efforts into surviving the remainder of the winter, not babysitting his sorry ass.

Hershel was quiet for a moment trying to read Daryl's expression, but it remained closed off. "Son, you've done anything but fail us, and we all care about you. You should know we'd never just leave you to waste away uncared for. You'd do the same for any one of us, why would we do any less for you?"

Daryl chose not to answer. This conversation had taken a lot out of him, leaving him weary and despondent. He inwardly cursed himself for tiring so easily.

When he received no response from his recalcitrant patient, Hershel went on. "At any rate, I'd like you to get some rest. God knows, you need it. You aren't looking quite like your chipper self." It was clear the old man was trying to humor him, under the belief it was just the fever talking, and Daryl let him, too tired to call him on it. "I'll send Carol in with some broth in a bit. You're to eat it. And you're to take the medicine she'll administer as well."

Daryl nodded as his eye lids succumbed to gravity and slipped shut, allowing sleep to embrace him yet again.

* * *

As Hershel'd promised, Carol was sitting in the room when he woke up this time. She didn't notice he was awake at first. She was perched in the middle of the unoccupied bed, a small pile of clothes lying haphazardly on one side, a small stack of neatly folded clothes on the other, and in her lap was a lone garment she was mending. It appeared to be a shirt. Glenn's actually. He couldn't help but just watch her in this peaceful moment. Well, peaceful for her. She was intent on her work, sewing away, a look of calm serenity on her face alluding to the idea that she must be lost in thought, blissfully wandering along in a daydream of good memories.

He, on the other hand, wasn't feeling quite so serene. As much as he'd like freeze time and watch, to live vicariously in her tranquility, the reality of his body's discomfort was demanding to be acknowledged. Try as he might to push it away, squeeze it into the outer edges of his awareness, it was wasted effort. The aches and pains refused to be ignored, and Carol's sense of peace was lost on him. He couldn't share it with her.

He didn't want to disturb her, so he closed his eyes and allowed his whole reality to revolve around the pain, hoping that he might just fall back to sleep to escape it. He must have made some noise though, or maybe she just sensed his wakefulness, damn woman was spooky that way sometimes, because suddenly her hand was on his forehead, startling him. His eyes snapped open to meet hers staring back at him.

"Your fever's going back up. You feel warmer than you did earlier." She informed him, removing her hand from his forehead, and reaching over to the nightstand. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty shitty, if I'm being honest." Daryl whispered, his throat too sore to maintain a normal speaking voice.

Carol opened a pill bottle and shook a couple out into her hand. "You need to take these, then eat this delectable broth I fixed up for you." She joked gesturing toward the bowl sitting on the nightstand with a smile, earning a bare hint of one from him in return.

She helped him to sit up a bit and rearranged the pillows behind him. He wasn't so much sitting as he was lying in a slightly inclined position. She placed the medicine in his hand, which he lifted shakily to his lips. The glass of water he had to contend with next proved more troublesome. His hand shook so badly under its meager weight that, just before he spilled it everywhere, Carol reached out her own hand, placing it over his, and steadying it as she helped him to drink.

The pills were hard to swallow, burning their way down his sore throat, but that was nothing compared to how hard it was to swallow the fact that he was as defenseless as Lori's baby would be when it was born. He couldn't even hold a cup of water by himself. He hated having to rely on others, hated that Carol had to see him this way, hated burdening the group with his illness. His weakness.

The bowl of steaming broth appeared in front of his face. He marveled at how Carol managed to do things like that. How was it still hot enough to be steaming? She hadn't left the room since he'd awakened, and judging by the pile of finished mending she'd been sitting there for quite a while as he slept. The woman was a conundrum. He didn't think he'd ever understand her.

Taking his silence for obstinacy, she began to urge him, her tone just this side of begging. "Daryl, please, you have to eat something."

She held a spoonful of the liquid in front of his lips. The look she gave him, one that to a person who didn't know her like he did was deceptively calm, but to him the masked desperation in her eyes shone through like a beacon. So he obeyed without a fight, let her feed him without resistance. And as much as it shamed him, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle the task himself right now, anyway.

"There's not much left. Just a few more bites. Please?" Carol prodded, when he'd finished half the bowl and refused any more. A week without food, in conjunction with this sickness, had shrunk his stomach considerably.

He shook his head tiredly. "I can't, Carol. I'm sorry, I just can't."

"It's ok, sweetheart. You did good." She set the bowl aside, picking up a damp rag from a second bowl instead. She began bathing his face and forehead with it, as she'd done so many times this past week.

Daryl stiffened at both the chill of the cloth and the contact. "Don't have to do that, you know."

"I know, I want to do this for you. I want you to get better. To feel better." Carol looked him straight in the eyes then, to be sure he saw the sincerity there. "I know you think you're a second rate citizen in this group, and that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes, your capabilities and knowledge make you a much needed asset, but that's not all we want you here for. We all care about you. I care about you. We're a family now, and like it or not, you're part of it."

At first, Daryl didn't know what to say. No one in this group was his blood. Dare he believe her words? But Carol'd never steered him wrong before, he doubted she'd start now. Meaning she believed what she was saying. And if she believed it…

A family. Wasn't that a fucking thought? Even when healthy he wasn't emotionally equipped to deal with this, and being sick just made it that much worse. So he did all he knew how to, and brushed it off. "You talked to Hershel didn't you?"

"He mentioned something about Maggie and Glenn's supply run being an unnecessary risk, yes." Carol admitted. "But, he only told me, and we don't plan on sharing that unfortunate opinion with any of the others. If you want anyone else to know what you think about it, you'll just have to tell them yourself."

He glared at her. She smiled at him.

He sighed and closed his eyes; he couldn't wait till he could keep the damn things open for longer than a few minutes at a time. "Go ahead. Have your fun at my expense." But there was no edge behind the words.

Carol chuckled a little. "I will." Daryl cracked an eye open to see her smiling brightly at him. He snorted at her, and closed his eye again. She was bathing his neck now. Even though the water was cold, it felt pretty good. Something he'd never admit to out loud.

He could feel himself teetering on the edge of sleep, and just as he was tumbling over, he vaguely registered warm lips press a gentle kiss against his temple, just as they had what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Carol's voice wafted over him in a gentle whisper. "I'm so glad you're doing okay. Get some rest, Daryl."


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: I am sooooo sorry how long it's been since I've updated. We moved a few months back, and I _still _don't have internet. It's by chance that I actually happen to be somewhere with my laptop and wifi. That never happens. I figured I'd get a chapter posted real quick while I had the chance. This story is nearing it's end and I want to give a big thanks to everyone for reading. I'm hoping we'll have internet again soon so I can get the next chapters posted before months go by again. Also, I try to personally respond to all my reviews; if I've missed anyone I'm sorry! I appreciate each one, and want to thank you all so much for all praises and criticisms; it really helps me to grow as a writer. :) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this. _

The next several days were much the same after that. Someone would always be in the room during his brief bouts of wakefulness, more often than not it was Carol or Rick, though occasionally it was one of the others; Hershel seemed to be checking in on him quite a bit as well. Each time he'd be given medicine, soup and water before exhaustion overtook him again.

They told him he was getting better. That his fever was consistently down by several degrees, sometimes abating completely; which was treated like a major accomplishment, even though the damn thing kept coming back. But the days wore on, and he still felt like he was existing on the dregs of what gives one life.

By the end of the second week of being bedridden, he was certain he was going to lose his mind. He was almost grateful he'd been unconscious for the better part of the first one, and really, he still was asleep more hours of the day than not. He was beginning to think he'd never get better. But gradually he began to stay awake a little longer as he began to regain a small measure of strength. He could hold a cup steady without sloshing its contents everywhere at any rate. Hershel even started allowing him a bit of bread instead of the strictly liquid diet he'd been restricted to. The bread scraped at his still tender throat, but he wasn't about to backpedal on any progress.

And then, _finally_, he woke to an empty room. They must have deemed him no longer in danger of keeling over at any given moment and taken him up on his many, not-so-subtle demands that they give him 'some fucking privacy for once!'

What a treat.

A rare smile flitted across his features as he just laid there for a moment, basking in the comfort of no one's company. He was grateful for the care the group had shown him in his weakened state, but he was a solitary man, and there was only so much he could take. The constant hovering and fussing of the others had been wearing on him. He had enough fatigue to contend with from this illness without the added strain of being smothered with kindness.

He took stock of his body, feeling the aches and pains still lingering like a heavy weight, but nothing like when he'd come to that first time. Throwing back the blankets with a shiver at the cool air suddenly accosting him, he decided to do what no one would allow him to even try and attempt. Get the hell out of bed.

Being in bed so long was a foreign concept to him, whether sick or healthy, you don't just laze about for no good reason. Good reasons were few and far between, such as you had not one, but two broken legs, or you were unconscious. This way of thinking had been beaten into him from such a young age it was hard to just turn that off. Apparently, the members of his group felt a near-lethal strain of the flu was categorized under 'good reason'. And hell, maybe it was to normal people.

Slowly and carefully he sat up, the movement setting his already aching head to pounding. He closed his eyes, steeling himself to the increase in pain, before firmly planting his feet on the hard floor, the socks on his feet offering little resistance to the chilly surface. About to stand, he felt a tug in the back of his hand and noted the IV still in place, pumping fluids into his veins. He pulled the needle out, a pearl of blood welling up from the puncture wound, and drug his thumb across it leaving behind a crimson streak staining too-pale skin.

Standing on shaky legs set his head to spinning and he grappled for the wall to keep from falling. He leaned on it for several seconds, breathing heavily willing away the woozy feeling. Feeling a bit steadier on his feet, he pushed off the wall and found that he had no plans on what do from here. He stood there, in a bit of a daze, before realizing he needed to take a piss. Badly. Well, he had a course of action now, so he shuffled into the bathroom. It was probably the longest piss of his life. Feeling much relieved, he chanced a look in the mirror.

Damn but he looked terrible.

There was no color to his skin, he was almost translucent. Dark bruises under his eyes stood out brightly against the sickly pallor. He'd already lost weight along with everyone else on their starvation diet, but he was even thinner than before, his ribs protruding noticeably. He'd lost probably another 10 or 15 pounds. His overly long hair was a matted and tangled mess; it was like a nest perched atop his head. He felt like he had a layer of sweat coating his entire body. God he felt gross.

He stared at his unsightly self, trying to decide if he had the strength for a shower, and being already chilled to the bone, if he could even handle one without hot water. It really probably wasn't the best idea. If Hershel were in here he'd probably tell him he'd catch his death… but screw it.

Throwing caution to the wind, he grabbed a washcloth and stripped down, figuring it'd be warmer to take a horse bath. He hissed as the cold water hit his skin, and made quick work of lathering up his whole body, then rinsed off as best he could, not caring he was drenching the floor in the process. There was tile in the bathroom, it didn't matter. He toweled off his body before dunking his head under the icy stream. Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking together, he scrubbed hand soap through his hair in place of the shampoo he didn't have, then rinsed it off. Taking the damp towel from about his waist he dried his hair vigorously before tossing the wet thing on the floor, pushing it around half-heartedly with his foot to mop up the mess he'd made, while using his fingers to comb his hair. He didn't do a very good job. With his hair or the floor. But fuck it.

Luck was on his side for once as he managed to dress himself without anyone barging in and catching him in his full glory. Freezing, he lay down on the bed and burrowed under the covers. Taking a bath had been exhausting. He felt slightly more human now at least. He let his eyes slide shut under heavy lids, intending to just rest them for a few minutes and catch his breath, but the pull of sleep was stronger than he was at present and overtook him once more.

"Daryl." He woke to someone shaking him gently. "Daryl, wake up."

Hershel.

Daryl groaned and squinted up at the old man. Hershel wore a stern look on his face. "What do you think you're doing taking that IV out? You didn't even turn the drip off." Daryl looked down to see that the IV had been reattached to him, then down to the floor where there was a puddle of saline solution.

"Sorry, I didn't think about turning it off." He apologized for wasting the precious resource.

Hershel, who had stooped down to mop up the mess, looked up at him. "It's fine; just don't take it out again. It's important that you stay hooked up to that for awhile yet. If you get up again take the bag with you." Hershel leaned back down to wipe the floor. "What did you do in there anyway? Take a bath at the sink? There's water all over the floor."

Daryl looked sheepish. "Yeah. Guess I made a bit of a mess."

"You really should have waited till you'd recovered more. Hopefully it's no harm done. I'd hate to see you relapse from the exposure to the cold." The vet straightened before taking a seat in the chair now ever-present at his bedside. He lifted his medical bag from the floor producing his stethoscope. "How are you feeling?"

"Still tired and achy, and I got a headache." Daryl answered, deciding not to mention how cold he was. He wasn't in the mood for any 'I told you so's', or worried admonishments. He was, however, pleased that his voice was a bit stronger than it'd been of late, even if it wasn't yet up to his usual par.

Hershel nodded and put the stethoscope in his ears, listening to Daryl's heart and lungs. He felt his lymph nodes and went about his routine of generally poking and prodding at him, ending with taking his temperature. "Well, you seem to be doing better. You haven't kicked that fever just yet, but it's low-grade, 99.6."

Hershel handed him some pills and a glass of water, which Daryl swallowed. "We'll keep you on that IV another day or two, and I don't really want you getting up and around till then. That means no gallivanting about the motel. You can get up for the bathroom, but that's it. No more showers till then, either."

With a sigh Daryl nodded. He really didn't like the idea, but he'd abide it. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but his body was still pretty weak and he tired so easily it was ridiculous. Not to mention he still felt awful. But there was an end in sight. Two more days. He could handle that.


	8. Chapter 8

_AN: Wow, I got to a WiFi spot again! How amazing! Only one chapter left after this. Again thanks for reading and reviewing. :)_

Waiting two days was easier said than done. He was nowhere near back to his usual self, but definitely on the mend. And restless. He still frequently nodded off, but when he was awake, he was getting increasingly harder for his caretakers to put up with; being uncooperative and generally grouchy. He tried not to be rude. After all, they'd saved his life, but he just couldn't help it. It was in his nature.

He wanted out of this damn bed. And they just wouldn't _let_ him.

They had nothing to do for someone who was laid up to pass the time. The only reading material the group possessed was a medical journal about anatomy that Glenn and Maggie had picked up on their run for supplies, and Daryl'd already read it from cover to cover. Multiple times. He could probably recite it in its entirety if someone were inclined to request it of him. Turned out, it was actually rather interesting. He'd cleaned all his weapons, as well as everyone else's, till they were so free of filth that cleaning them any more would be a danger to their integrity, he'd counted all the ceiling tiles about 50 times. He'd taunted and harassed Carol and Rick and Hershel, and anyone else brave enough to venture into his domain. He was going stir crazy.

So that third day when Hershel came in, removing the IV and deeming him well enough to get up for short periods, along with strict instructions not to over-do it, Daryl was elated. Of course, there really wasn't anywhere for him to go aside from their dining/gathering room, where he would no doubt be bombarded with well-wishes and 'thank goodness you're okay's', but fuck it was a different venue, and he was likely to turn violent if he had to stay in this room another minute.

The walk to the dining area was slow going and left Daryl surprisingly tired, but he did his best to mask the fatigue, unwilling to be sent back to bed already. Hershel had followed him, ready to catch him should he fall, and wasn't that just pathetic. An old man in better shape than he was.

He was relieved to find that the room was empty, save for Beth and T-dog, both sitting at one of the tables, Beth folding clothes and T-dog counting ammunition. They both looked up when he entered, and watched quietly as he made his way across the room to the lone, weathered loveseat hugging the far wall underneath a boarded up window. He sat down heavily with a sigh. Couch was pretty comfortable for such an old thing.

"Hey man." T-dog greeted him from where he sat. "Good to see you back in the land of the living."

Daryl looked at the man with a wry smirk. "Yeah, thanks."

"Would you like something to eat, Daryl?" Beth asked in that soft-spoken way of hers. "I could fix something up for you."

"Naw, I'm alright." He still hadn't regained much of an appetite. The girl was probably shocked to see how thin he'd gotten. Hell, he probably looked like death to her. The dark bruising under his eyes had only gotten marginally better since the other day, and he was still pale enough to beat a red-headed Irishman in a blind-your-friends contest.

But she just gave him a shy smile, standing anyways. "You at least should drink some water." She announced as she headed toward the kitchen.

Hershel watched his daughter leave the room with a fond look before turning to address Daryl. "Now you take it easy. You're doing much better, but you're not well just yet." With that said he took his leave, passing Beth in the doorway, now laden with a glass of water and a slice of bread.

"In case you get hungry." She told Daryl, holding the items out to him. He took both, and obligingly took a sip of the water, before setting them both down on the scratched surface of the coffee table, offering her a nod of thanks. She gave him another smile then rejoined T-Dog at their table, taking her folding back up.

Daryl turned toward the window, peering out at the world outside between a thin gap in the slats of wood covering it. It was a bleak setting. The overcast sky creating a dreary scene. Everything was blanketed in thick snow, what could only be a harsh and bitter wind whisking the top layer away into a fine dust whipping around in the cold morning air.

He couldn't help but think that the view out there was a reflection of his heart. Cold and bitter. Inhospitable to any who dared venture out into its unforgiving grasp. Damn, but he was trying. Trying to melt the layer of ice coating his heart, a forceful freeze cast on him by all the wrongs and hurts he'd suffered in his life. This group he was with now had taken him in, he was beginning to truly see this, and he couldn't help but be grateful, however begrudgingly. He wanted to let them in. Needed it. He just didn't have the slightest idea of where to begin.

Well shit, maybe he was getting invested too. He could tell he'd been letting the poison of hopefulness seep into him. A result of all the kindness the others had been showing him. He was just so unsure. Dare he take stock in the words of reassurance Carol had been feeding him? Believe the kind actions Rick and Hershel had been showing him were genuine? Trust that Glenn and Maggie held no reservations for going on that run for _his_ benefit; that they truly wanted to help him? He'd always been the outsider, even amongst his own family. The odd man out. The idea of belonging was so inviting… but it couldn't possibly be real. Could it?

A freezing rain began to fall as he continued to look outside, like a precursor to the strengthening resolve of the chill around his heart. And he knew. He couldn't afford it. To become invested. Every time he'd ever let that freeze melt even a little, it was always met with tragedy and pain. This was his lot in life. He'd accepted it a long time ago, now was not the time to begin questioning that fact yet again.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the dismal view. He didn't need to see it. He could feel it just fine.


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: Well, this thing is finally done. I just want to give a big thank you out to everyone whose stuck with this story. I know I'm not the most timely person out there with the uploads. I promise not to post anymore fic until I have internet in my own home again. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!_

_~SixesandSevens_

The next thing he knew he was waking up to the cool touch of Carol's hand on his forehead, he had a blanket draped over him that someone must have put there as he slept. He blinked up at her blearily for a moment.

"You're still a little warm." Carol said removing her hand. "Dinner's ready. Would you like to join us? Or I can bring it to you here if you'd prefer."

Daryl looked past her to see that the others had gathered at the two tables that had been scooted together to form one table large enough to accommodate everyone. He hadn't even noticed them till just now. It was like his senses had been shut off. He didn't much care for that. "No, I'll come sit down."

He moved to get up, standing carefully and suppressing a groan. His body still ached and he was stiff from days of little activity. He sat in an empty chair, Glenn to his left and Carol taking the seat to his right. He could feel the groups' concern hanging heavy in the air, though no one said anything. It was stifling, and almost worse than if they would just _say_ something.

Which they did, but it was all uncomfortable small talk. Half-formed conversations that died out nearly as quickly as they began, each as hushed and awkward as the last:

"Carol you didn't happen to notice if we had any peas left in our vegetable stores did you?" "Yes, about a cup and a half worth."

"Sure is cold this winter. It must have snowed at least a little bit just about every day." Met with agreeing grunts and mumbled "Mm's."

"We should probably look for more firewood soon, our stores are getting low." "Everything's all wet." "We can dry it out."

Eventually the conversation stopped altogether replaced with that cloying concern and unease threating to choke him; the only sounds the scraping of silverware on plates and quiet chewing.

Daryl looked around. Everyone looked stiff and uncomfortable, averting their gazes when he'd catch them peering his way. He couldn't take it anymore. They were driving him nuts, and while initially he'd been grateful they hadn't come at him full force with excitement that he was getting better, it was starting to look a hell of a lot better than whatever this game was they were playing at.

"Am I really that scary looking?" He joked, in an attempt to alleviate the tension, which was a poor choice in words on his part. He probably _was_ that scary looking. His comment was met with uneasy chuckles and furtive glances cast quickly about, they were going for inconspicuous he imagined. Didn't quite work out for them, he saw each one.

Before the silence stretched unbearably far, Rick finally took charge. "We're just glad to have you back. It hasn't been the same around here without you, but we wanted to give you your space too."

"Well, I'm fine now." Daryl stated dryly. "I ain't a piece of glass. Won't break if you tip me over. Ya'll don't need to go around acting like packing peanuts around me."

"What?" Carl had a childish expression of innocence and confusion on his young face. Something that was becoming quite the rarity as the cruelty of this new existence destroyed any lingering childhood tendencies the boy may still possess. It was refreshing to see, and Daryl found himself oddly pleased that he'd been the one to put it there.

"Ya know the Styrofoam peanuts that come in fragile packages? Just saying, I don't need ya'll to be my Styrofoam peanuts." Daryl told the boy, pinning him with a serious look, doing a brilliant job of masking his amusement under a stern façade. Carl stared at him then burst out laughing.

"You're so weird, Daryl!" He said with a big grin, causing everyone else to laugh as well. Real, genuine laughs. Even Daryl couldn't help himself from letting out a peal or two. He didn't even begrudge them their laughter, didn't cook up any misplaced notions in his mind that it was directed at him.

After that, the atmosphere of the dining room was much more relaxed. Conversation flowed naturally. People chatted casually about all manner of things they tended to discuss these days. Daryl didn't join in much, but at least he no longer felt like he was the unofficial center of attention.

He hadn't realized he was nodding off where he sat until Carol was suddenly at his side, gently taking his arm and quietly pulling him to his feet. She led him away towards his room. He was sure the interaction escaped no one's notice, but the woman had done what she could to be discreet, for which he was obliged.

As he stumbled down the dark hallways allowing Carol to guide his way, he felt an unfamiliar peacefulness. Once the ice had finally broken, being with the others tonight had been an unexpected healing balm on his soul. He could almost believe he'd finally found a place to belong.

He was basically sleepwalking at this point, and only vaguely registered Carol pushing him into bed and stuffing some pills down his throat, before feeling the blankets pulled up around him and a kiss on his forehead.

He knew he should be ashamed that he'd just essentially been tucked into bed like an infant, but found that right now, he really didn't give a shit.

* * *

When Daryl woke the next morning he found himself warring with his own nature again. All evidence pointed to the groups' sincerity in their acceptance of him, but that was in complete opposition to everything he'd been bred to know.

He was such a fool for ever believing he could belong. They weren't blood. He was a Dixon. Not only that, he was _Daryl_ Dixon; lowest of the clan. Socially inept, awkward, the _'sweet one'_. He'd always tried to find the good in people and it'd always ended badly, whether at his father's hand or some cosmic force hell-bent on making his life miserable. That's what made him the lowest in his family's food chain, what made him soft, because he could never seem to stop doing what'd he'd been trained to stop doing. And yet, here he was, entertaining the thought that these people could possibly give a shit about him. Again. He'd been letting these thoughts slip through his defenses a lot lately; he knew if he wasn't careful they'd start to chip away and crack the walls he'd erected around his heart until they finally came crashing down.

If he was completely honest with himself, the process of breaking down his walls had already begun. Fighting them on this was just delaying the inevitable. He had to do something, had to push back and fill the seams that'd been breached. He couldn't allow this.

And why shouldn't he? Because that's what Merle would expect of him? Because that's what his father had _beat_ into him?

He was well aware that he may not know a lot about healthy family dynamics, but he knew damn well that what he was raised with was wrong. The rational side of him told him to go against it, take all those lessons he'd learned from that god awful bastard and throw them away. But that other part, the beaten child still trapped within him, was terrified. What if his dad was right? What if he wasn't worth shit, and when he finally let his defenses down, he'd be betrayed? If that happened they'd leave him a broken shell with nothing left of himself, and nothing left to live for. Was it a risk he could afford to take?

With a heavy sigh, he got out of bed and made himself presentable, knowing he couldn't avoid the others forever. He didn't really relish the idea of company, but decided he might as well get it over with; breakfast would be ready soon, and seeing as he'd joined in on dinner last night his presence would be expected.

As he walked along the hallway to the dining room he realized he was feeling better. A lot better actually. There was still a little soreness in his muscles and a bit of a headache, but overall he felt like he was finally getting his strength back.

Thank. God.

Entering the dining room he saw Lori and Beth setting the dishes out for the morning's breakfast.

"Good morning, Daryl." Lori greeted him brightly. He nodded in return, taking a seat at one of the chairs.

"You've got some color back." Beth noticed as she poured water into ten glasses. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah." He answered simply, not much in the mood for talking.

Carol came out of the kitchen then with a pot of oatmeal, saving him from further interrogation. She gave him his space, simply offering him a smile, as she started serving up the mixture. He gave out another of his signature nods with the feeling that his immediate future would be littered with the gesture.

A couple minutes later Hershel appeared, grumbling that he'd wanted to give Daryl an exam before he got up, but relenting that it could wait till after breakfast. He still reached a hand out and placed his palm on Daryl's forehead, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile both at the coolness he found there and they icy stare he was rewarded with from the hunter for invading his personal space.

"I think your fever's finally gone for good." Hershel informed him quietly before taking his own seat at the table.

Yup, there it was. He found himself nodding again.

Daryl eyed T-Dog, Glenn and Maggie as they came shuffling in. Glenn and T-Dog were bantering about some video game they used to play while Maggie rolled her eyes at the both of them. He didn't know a lot about the gamer world, but caught the name 'Halo' and remembered quite the fuss had been made over that one.

Rick and Carl finally made their way in smiling and casting each other secretive glances, having just been engaged in some matter that was clearly on a need-to-know basis. Who knew what those Grime's men were up to in the rare moment of spare time.

As Daryl ate in silence listening to the comfortable chatter going on around him he could feel the sense of kinship in the room. He realized he felt he had a place in this unlikely group of people. He'd been fighting the idea so hard, but maybe, just maybe, he could accept that he belonged here. Would it be such a bad thing? It's not like he had much to lose, and it certainly wouldn't be the end of the world seeing as _that_ ship had already sailed.

About midway through the meal Maggie let out a powerful string of sneezes. Daryl felt his chest constrict. Fear seized him. What if he'd gotten her sick? He didn't think he could handle the guilt of jeopardizing anyone's health.

The room had suddenly gone quiet and he noted all eyes were on him, he could feel a blush creeping up his neck under their collective gaze. His first thought was that Maggie was sick and they all blamed him. He hadn't even realized that he'd frozen in place, his spoon hovering over his bowl, and been staring at her with an expression of thinly veiled panic since she'd sneezed.

"Daryl, I'm fine." Maggie reassured him, unable to hold back a grin at his concern for her. "I was dusting earlier, which I really probably shouldn't do. I'm allergic to dust."

He watched her warily for a moment. When he saw nothing but honesty in her eyes, he looked around sheepishly, letting out a nervous chuckle and turned his attention back to his food.

"Awww, he's worried about you Maggie." Glenn teased.

Daryl shot him a scathing look. "Shut up, before I come breathe on you." But there was no malice behind the threat, and everyone erupted into laughter.

He'd have to fight his inner nature, but he could do this. He could accept that he had finally found a place to belong. Damn. It seemed that icy chill around his heart had been melting away in little spurts and he was only just beginning to notice.


End file.
